


“He attacked everything in life with a mix of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence, and it was often difficult to tell which was which.”

by notjustmom



Series: Towel Day 2018 [37]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Douglas Adams, First Kiss, M/M, Towel Day 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: a first kiss... eventually.





	“He attacked everything in life with a mix of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence, and it was often difficult to tell which was which.”

The quality of their first kiss, abrupt and awkward as it was, didn't surprise John at all.

But, as usual, we are getting ahead of ourselves.

Let's just begin again. 

Deep breath in, let it go slowly. 

There. 

Now.

 

Sherlock Holmes was a genius. 

There was never any doubt about that. He could look at a crime scene, and tell you not only what the victim had for breakfast each morning, but also precisely what that had to do with their early demise. At one point in his life, he had memorised each play written by the Bard, even those he was only suspected of writing - John knew this only from the one night when Sherlock agreed to go to the local with him after a successfully closed case, and John quickly learned why Sherlock didn't usually go. One pint, and he was nearly under the table. John scooped him up, apolgised for Sherlock's exhaustion, and exited the pub with as much grace as he could muster, all the while listening as Sherlock was muttering a monolgue from Henry the Fourth, the second part. He managed to carry on through the middle of Richard the Third, and as John was removing his scarf and coat, admitted to having spent a good year and a half of his childhood reading and rereading Shakespeare, as he wasn't any good at activities involving cooperation or heaven forbid sports of any kind, though he had attempted to join in on more than one occasion.

"How old were you?" John asked quietly.

"Five - uhm - no, sixseve - seven! Definitely seven."

"Shoes next," John muttered, and sighed as he felt Sherlock slump over him as he untied and removed Sherlock's shoes.

'I embarrassed you," Sherlock whispered.

"Nah, I should have known better. You know your limits, usually. Why tonight?"

"I wanted to see if I could -" Sherlock let go of John, leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. "- fit in."

John knelt in front of him. "But why?"

Sherlock looked up at John, searching his face for some kind of sign, and after a moment shrugged his slight shoulders. "Never mind. Won't be trying that again. Night, John." He slowly got to his feet, somehow made his way to his room, and closed the door quietly behind him.

That was six weeks ago.

 

It was a dark, wild and rainy night, when John arrived home to find a disaster in the kitchen, not an experiment, well, perhaps an experiment of a sort, as it seemed Sherlock had attempted to cook something, but it hadn't quite survived the cooking stage. John sighed, and took off his soaked jacket and hung it over a kitchen chair, since, of course, naturally, he had left his umbrella that morning, even though Sherlock had told him he would need it later. He was, correct, as always.

"Sherlock?" 

Nothing.

"Come on, Sherlock, I know you're home. Your coat is hanging up, your shoes are here and even you wouldn't go out without your umbrella in weather like this."

"In here," came a muffled voice. Bedroom. Right. John hadn't been in Sherlock's room since the day Irene drugged him and he had unceremoniously dumped him onto his bed, and closed the door just enough for privacy - god that was ages ago. He pushed opened the door and peered into the darkness. He sighed, knelt by the bed and pushed back the dark curls from Sherlock's face.

"Hey."

"Sorry."

"What for? You mean for whatever died in the kitchen?"

Sherlock nodded and opened his eyes. "I wanted to - tried to - make dinner for you, but I -"

"You are a genius, Sherlock, at so many things, and I have been an idiot. I should have seen."

"I've never been good at this," Sherlock whispered, then reached out to pull John closer and kissed him roughly and tenderly at the same time. "Sorry -"

"No, it's fine, it just takes a bit of time and practice, like everything else." John grinned at him, and kissed him carefully, then moaned impatiently as Sherlock drew away from him.

"You - you, want to - this - with me?" Sherlock stammered out.

"Yes. Oh, god, yes."


End file.
